The Beautiful Faith of Simple Food, Slow Drinks, and a Good Long Nap
It’s one of my favorite passages in the Bible. Weary Elijah collapses, and God tends him with sleep, food, and drink. (I Kings 19.)
During this season of international uncertainty, many of us are either exhausted or quickly becoming so. While other generations have survived much worse, this present level of danger is new for many Americans. We’re peddling through this crisis on training wheels, trying to figure out how what we believe applies to where we are this week.
Of course, we need to remain in the posture of giving, finding ways to look outward and serve the needy. But when we aren’t doing that, we need to remember the rest of Elijah.
In our “love yourself” culture, I can sometimes feel guilty about taking care of my body. However, this crisis may last several months, so tending myself is going to help me run a marathon instead of a sprint.
So, what does tending me look like? Certainly not flagrant extravagance. Excess would be insensitive in such a time—even if we are able to manage it. If you or I somehow end up with the money to spoil ourselves, we should instead use it to invest in those whose livelihood has been demolished by the virus.
But we do still have to eat, drink, and sleep—so without waste or luxury, it’s possible to slow down and make room to tend ourselves thoughtfully and gratefully. Such activities will help nourish our minds, souls, and bodies so that we can continue to be contributors.
How might this look? Here are some ideas:
1. Sleep as much as possible. Sleep is soooo good for us, and it’s a natural healing agent. So, develop some habits around sleep that help you maximize that practice.
Maybe change the sheets more often than usual—you know how good clean sheets feel. Take a bath before bed. Download an app with a virtual fireplace or rain sound effects. Take a few minutes to make sure your bedroom is organized, clutter free, prepared for the faith-activity of sleeping. If you can, if it’s helpful, take a nap every single day. If you live with others, maybe give somebody in your home a really good back massage so he or she can sleep deeply one night, and you two can swap that favor another night.
In the Creation narrative in Genesis, God formed each night before He formed each day, most likely as a symbol that we are to rest in His sustaining, creative activity before each of our mornings begin. With every dawn, we wake up to a world full of resources He has already prepared for us. Sleep can be an act of falling into that trust, and this season of history is a particularly good time to think of it like that.
2. Make simple and meaningful food. I don’t mean overindulgence. I’m talking about careful preparation and consumption that is full of gratitude and praise.
Robert Capon spends an entire chapter in his book The Supper of the Lamb describing the slicing of an onion. When I was a child, our Japanese neighbor used to spend hours some mornings, listening to music and cutting up vegetables. They found praise, trust, gratitude in such simple work!
Tonight, I’m going to make homemade biscuits with my son. Cheap, simple ingredients will make the house smell comforting and good. Did you ever realize that Jesus told us to be thankful for “our daily bread” in an era when most families made their own? They didn’t just run down to Kroger and buy sliced loaves, mindlessly throwing together sandwiches to wolf down in front of the TV. This gratitude involved the slow, sweet work of construction. Thank you, God, for flour. Thank you, God, for heat. Thank you, God, for the magic of a baking.
Or, if you’re a tea drinker, brew the perfect cup and drink it slowly. Turn the phone off and sip it gratefully. Just slow down and realize that this little cup nourishment is a gift of the Father who loves you.
We are a culture that has woofed vast quantities of food down while getting the next thing done. Food is so detached from its source, its construction, its preparation. But after his resurrection, Jesus used his own hands to cook breakfast for his disciples. He knew how weary, discouraged, and confused his friends had been, so he cooked for them. Do this for yourself. Do this for those you love.
3. This next bit isn’t in I Kings, but I think the rest of the Bible shows us the value of nourishment via music. The Scriptures are full of the soul-healing work of songs during difficult times.
Several of my friends are hearing impaired, but I see using this same concept in other ways—with lyrics, with visual art. They are so creative. So, however your sense work, don’t be ashamed to fill them up with life and hope. God made you responsive. Tending that part of you—in times when you can—recognizes the artistry of your Maker and is a very good thing.
SIDE NOTE ON THIS:
One clarification, though—be aware of what you pour in because music is powerful. There’s a place in our lives for songs full of tension, anger, doubt, disillusionment. Those songs help us process our own emotions. But a common lie circulating in contemporary Christianity is that angst-filled music is somehow more honest than chosen order and beauty. This is untrue. We should use music to wail—but we should also use it to heal, guide, and restore us. (Tim Keller’s sermons “Praying your Fears” and “Praying your Tears” are the best resources I know for guiding us in this balance.)
In The Screwtape Letters, Lewis says the first time a person sees the gross casualty of war, he will be temptated to believe the worst horrors of the world are most true. He also says this conclusion is wrong. The most true stories are stories of redemption. We should not trust naïveté—but we should trust resolution. There’s a big difference.
So rest, readers. Take a bath. Make something simple but yummy. Drink a slow cup of tea. Listen to beauty. Breathe. Pray. Sleep. Do all these things in faith.
Tend yourself so that you will be strong enough to rise and run again when the Lord calls you to run. There’s a sweet, slow faith to food, drink, and a nap. Now’s the perfect time to learn this particular sort of worship.
“The Bed” by Lautrec